‘I made an inappropriate comment about hands and it’s the first I’ve seen you smile today.’ She bowed dramatically and shot him a grin, before striding towards her office.
Meilyr’s mouth tugged again. It was easy around her.
Pedr followed as he stepped out of the network of reading rooms. The knight’s near-constant presence was still tangible but had eased with time.
Today, however, they felt very… present.
Perhaps it was only Meilyr’s nerves. The foolish panic that Pedrknew, that Harlanknew, that everyoneknew, as though him kissing the prince was somehow the biggest scandal Eascild had to offer.
Two crownsworn turned the corner ahead, very close to him. He stepped aside reflexively, so saw as one of them forcibly clipped Pedr in the shoulder.
The offending crownsworn turned on their heel to take their next strides backwards, openly glaring at the knight, until the second guard pulled them back into step.
Meilyr moved after them, bursting with protest. But Pedr put their arm before him, watching the two depart.
‘They did that on purpose,’ Meilyr said. ‘That was—’
‘Not worth the breath,’ said Pedr. They turned to wait for him to continue walking.
‘Highness Cadogan…’ Demelza’s greeting slowed as she followed his gaze. ‘Is everything all right?’
He glanced once more at Pedr. ‘Yes, Highness. Thank you. Lady Faina is—’
‘Here!’ Faina swept out of the reading rooms, dusting her skirts of imaginary dirt. ‘Apologies – my, what did I miss?’
‘Nothing,’ Meilyr said, smile no longer genuine. ‘Just a misunderstanding.’
Osian stored the practice sword and re-belted his own. ‘So, someone is spreading rumours.’
‘It would seem that way.’ Blythe breathed hard, flexing her broad shoulders. ‘Or they’ve come to the conclusion themselves.’
That seemed less likely, but either way, the Cyngaleg populace now whispered of vengeful spirits: a force risen from legend to make Khaim pay. If they were not careful, that could be a torch to a hill of dried kindling.
‘We’ll do what we can to halt the spread,’ Blythe said. ‘Without force, of course.’
They left the training grounds side by side, and Osian tried not to wonder if Meilyr had already made his way from the reading rooms. The day was bright, and neither of them was the type to miss a morning.
He needed to see him, soon, to know he was all right.
Sunlight ignited the puddles in the courtyard as they strode out of the shadows, the cobbles ringing with the castle’s morning sounds.
‘Where to next, Majesty?’ Blythe asked.
To see him, Osian wanted to say. ‘To the bridge,’ he said, ‘to deal with the latest shipments heading for Sanford. Then lunch.’ Hopefully Meilyr would join him. Hopefully he felt comfortable enough. The afternoon would be for attempting to salvage any hope of peace with Flintwick March – Sanford, as well. The former had had their heir murdered on Principality soil, and had withdrawn their seat from the Council entirely. Had threatened worse. Meanwhile, Sanford had succumbed to in-fighting over leadership, making their hold over imports and exports through the Marches even more precarious.
The king had ordered a strengthening of Eascild’s defences in response. Osian had warned against sending troops from Khaim, but perhaps that too was only a matter of time.
There was a small commotion towards the gatehouse: raised voices and movement. Osian changed trajectory towards it, Blythe only a step behind. Someone was being dragged into the courtyard by two crownsworn, their head bleeding.
‘Hold! What happened?’
‘We were making our rounds in town and they resisted a search,’ one of the crownsworn said, expression shifting from self-assured resolve to hesitance at Osian’s presence. ‘He had something suspicious on him, Majesty.’
‘Why were they searched?’
They were clearly of the peasantry, garb simple but not overly worn. Their face was split in two places, heavily lined, their hair grey. Even hanging limp in the crownsworn’s hold, it was clear they had been weeping.
‘What was the charge?’